


My Skin Will Start to Break up and Fall Apart

by iktwabrokenbone (apiculteur)



Category: Bandom, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drums, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiculteur/pseuds/iktwabrokenbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been playing the same song for hours now. 'Whiplash'. Possibly the most difficult song to play on the drums- it sure felt like it- but Josh didn't plan on stopping.</p><p>Aching head and bones and heart, drowned out by the <em>sharp-sharp-sharp</em> pains in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Skin Will Start to Break up and Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

> look at the tags, guys. be careful.
> 
> based on the movie whiplash, but not rly with any plot. i just like writing abt blood.
> 
> title from fall away

He had been playing the same song for hours now. 'Whiplash'. Possibly the most difficult song to play on the drums- it sure felt like it- but Josh didn't plan on stopping.

Aching head and bones and heart, drowned out by the _sharp-sharp-sharp_ pains in his hands.

Blood.

The blisters on his hands, mainly the area between his thumb and index finger, had long since rubbed away, the friction of his sticks, constantly moving, painfully removing the skin. Blood was covering his hands, making them slippery at first, then tacky, less able to move his sticks. When he had to play at such a high speed, anything like that doomed any chances he had of reaching the speed the song required.

In the corner of his room, he had a water bottle, which he grabbed, wincing when he put down the sticks. They were pulling at his skin, not wanting to leave his hands, but what was a little more pain when it was already the only thing he could feel, overwhelming his senses, so he was _drums-pain-drums-pain-drums-pain **-pain-stop** -drums-whiplash-pain_, all in a repeating cycle.

It took four of the largest plasters he could find to cover the entirety of his wound. It would stop him bleeding as much, even if he knew he wouldn't be able to remain silent when he pulled off a sticky, bloody plaster from his already throbbing injury. It was worth it though, somehow, because drums were his life, weren't they? Drums were his identity. All his life, since the day he had been given that little kit as a young child, Josh had been a drummer, and he loved it. He did.

He was a drummer, and a little bit of pain was worth it. He _needed_ to be the core drummer, couldn't settle as some page-turning, stick-holding back-up.

His hands moved quicker than he thought possible, and that was _almost_ it, he was almost fast enough. The plasters were coming off and he was bleeding again, red dripping down his hands and feeding extra warmth to his wrists, his arms and legs and anywhere else it dripped.

Blood, sweat, spit, and maybe a few tears had landed on the drum kit. He was breaking apart. He was breaking and tearing and coming apart at the seams and this was all for drumming. Everything he had, his entire being, was all for drumming.

His movements slowed down, the wounds feeling so much more painful than they had mere seconds ago.

Blood, sweat, spit, and definitely a lot more tears than any adult had a right to produce.

Josh was crying, sobbing, slumping down on the stool, until his head gently thumped onto one of the drums- his eyes were closed and his world was falling apart around him, he didn't know which. His grip on the sticks tightened, sending shocks of _hurt-stop-don't_ through his body, and then released.

A clatter. He had let go, and after a few seconds, the thick, partially dry blood wasn't enough to hold them to his hands. He could feel his plasters drift away, only one staying attached to his hand, and even then, it was only a second away from falling.

The shaking of his shoulders dislodged it after only half a minute or so.

When he finally opened his eyes, headache so much worse since he had cried for almost an hour, he could see a small pool of blood on the floor, though his hand had stopped bleeding by now. It still hurt, and picking anything up, or even just touching anything, would likely restart the steady trickle of blood.

He was hollow, just a wind-up toy to be placed in front of a drum kit.

_Look at him go! Marvel as he beats away at the drums and his own sanity, his own health and happiness. Watch him realise he doesn't actually care about drumming as much as he thought he did, but that he has already gone too far to turn around._

_Buy this broken boy for any price you want! It's not as though he cares about anything at this point._

He could pick up his sticks and bag, walk home, wash off his hands and hope the cleaners weren't too disturbed by the state of the room when he left it. He could also do many, many other things. An innumerable amount of things, because humans were cursed with free will, and now Josh could do anything he liked, even if he didn't want to do anything, just wanted to stop existing.

Of all of the infinite things he could do, Josh let himself fall to the floor, impacting with a thump and a clunk. It hurt, of course, but he didn't care. Or, rather, he did, but everything was so terrible that he couldn't focus on one singular terrible thing, only the general terribleness of everything in the world.

He fell asleep. If he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> wow this is nothing like my usual cutesy shippy fics, idk what this was like.


End file.
